


With Bodies Swinging

by Cirrocumulus (orphan_account)



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Byleth is a songstress, Claude is charming, F/M, Flayn is precious, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Reincarnation, Roaring Twenties, Seteth smokes, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-16
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:01:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21823333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Cirrocumulus
Summary: Byleth notes how it all differs from the heavy bellowing of taverns, and how the instruments sound much richer, more fine-tuned than whatever she once danced to, back when the world still believed in beasts. There is no armour to be found here, only suits, and no mead is being drunk. It all seems much livelier than her memory, but also so much more wrong, as though someone has taken her and misplaced her within a second, and it took hundreds of years for her to end up here, but at the moment it might as well have taken nothing but the blink of an eye.~♪♫♪~The world has moved on, and now the people roar instead of wyverns. But fate must be a cruel lover, for it hands her a man with emerald eyes and a bedazzling smile in a bar full of jazz music, and he works the keys of a piano instead of the strings of a bow, and she sings songs instead of prayers, and somewhere along the way history has played a dirty joke on them both.
Relationships: My Unit | Byleth & Claude von Riegan, My Unit | Byleth & Seteth, My Unit | Byleth/Claude von Riegan, My Unit | Byleth/Seteth
Comments: 26
Kudos: 90





	1. The Roaring Times

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Vixenofthemist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vixenofthemist/gifts), [jullika](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jullika/gifts), [KeyKidCerilia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KeyKidCerilia/gifts), [tishtish4](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tishtish4/gifts).



> Big thanks to Jen (KeyKidCerilia), Juls (Jullika), Vixen (Vixenofthemist), Tish (tishtish4) and everyone else who builds me up with lovely comments regarding my writing.  
> This fic is dedicated to all of you! ❤

There is no roaring like that of a wyvern, she decides.

But the sky is clear, now, has been for ages. It adapted new wings, and the clouds part for mechanical avian beings now, with metal mouths and steel skeletons. She is not quite sure what to make of such strange apparitions, wishes back the beasts of old, but hardly any of them live anymore.

She muses, with melancholy, that she could be dubbed one of them. Lets fingers pull through short tresses of misty green like one would let a hand flow through a rippling wave, and the locks bounce and fall back into their rightful place. Looking up, she sees one flying through the blue, and maybe it does resemble a dragonkin in an ocean, somewhat.

Whatever time has dared to move forward brought with it, for once, an age of prosperity. And it shows in the faces of the people, even as she steps through the evening air, an atmosphere that brings chilly winds with it but also the hustle and bustle of the common man, and what is common now makes her feel much less so.

Not that she ever was.

But ages ago she considered herself little more than a mercenary’s daughter, and now they call these people handymen, because they fix problems without killing, and that doesn’t sit right with her for reasons she lacks the words to. Gone are the histories of monarchs, though part of the world still employs them, and instead of them came the politicians, and their endless words that are always meant to kill without getting their own hands dirty.

She wonders, worriedly, how a man could have the audacity to claim lives without seeing a single drop of blood spilt, but before she can continue this trail of thought a hand beckons for her, and her gaze falls on one of only a handful of people she can yet call a companion in this day and age.

Said companion wears a cloche hat, now, and curls that seem much more unnatural, but the green is ever the same, and her eyes yet shine. Gone are the times of armour and uptight clothes, replaced instead by comfortable dresses and skirts, of which she wears the latter together with a jacket that is deemed too tame, but just revealing enough for her father to not chide her.

She bows in a little flourish, heels clacking on the asphalt as she rushes over. “Byleth! How good it is to see you. Your hair is new, no?”

Her fingers find the reach towards it once more, and she tugs on a strand absentmindedly as she answers, lips curled upward out of courtesy. “Not as new as your hat, I suppose, Flayn. A gift?”

Her companion mouths a laugh in return, full and alive, and to Byleth it feels almost wondrous how it contrasts with her own tinny sounds of pleasantry. “Father picked it for me. Oh, he should be coming out in but a moment.”

She gestures to the little shop that they stand in front of, the window advertising liquor and newspapers, the paint on the building faded, but less so than Byleth’s own memories. A part of her begins to read the headlines absentmindedly, while the rest attempts to spy tresses the colour of seaweed beyond the border, and once she notices them, she follows them with her eyes until the man in question leaves the store.

Once outside, he holds up a pack of cigars, and, producing a lighter out of nowhere, lights one with a trained gesture. Flayn rolls her eyes almost unnoticeable, but her Father simply puffs out smoke.

Byleth snickers, beside herself. “You smoke, Seteth?”

He begins to paw at his short suit jacket, grabs the hem of it just to straighten it out, before the piece of burning joy finds its way back into his mouth. After taking a drag the smoke rises again, and Byleth finds herself reminded of dragons for the second time this day.

“A habit I plan to curb”, he replies, but, against his words, enjoys another drag instead.

“Perhaps another day”, he adds, as though to clarify.

Beside them both, Flayn begins to rock back and forth on her shoes with the short heels just long enough to produce a pleasant rhythmic sound. She looks towards the passer-by’s, eyes drinking in all the different outfits as if she can never get enough of a time’s appearance, and maybe that rings true.

She hums a jazz tune, something that she must have picked up through a radio, but then Byleth wouldn’t know how to differentiate between them with all the folk songs stuck in her head that no soul sings anymore.

Flayn voices what they all think. “How long has it been?”

“A couple years, I would wager”, Seteth replies, tone as calm as an ancient being, for he is one. “Not long at all.”

Byleth feels the need to voice that _not long at all_ means before the war, the most _recent_ one the world has faced, but lets the words die on her tongue. It would hit too close to home, admitting that humanity has not changed a bit in all the decades, nay, hundreds of years she has lived.

It is easier to, instead, fish the cigar out of Seteth’s hands to get a feel for the toxicity he indulges in, and the cigar hits her with a note of bitterness and laid open coping mechanisms and makes her cough up the processed taste with a disgusted expression. It tastes terrible, as expected, but as the grey clouds hit the open air, she can begin to see the appeal.

Nevertheless, she hands it back, and what little anger rested on his features softens as he sees the understanding grow in her eyes. “Awful, which is why I am attempting my best to stop this distasteful hobby of mine.”

With that, he kicks the cigar to the ground, steps on it, extinguishes it. Being as responsible as he is, however, he picks it up after, throws it into a nearby trash bin, then dusts himself off. Adjusting the polka dotted tie with one hand makes him seem like a man fully belonging to the time period he lives in, when that could not be further from the truth.

Seteth sighs, a short breath of exposed air, then begins walking with purpose. “It has come to my attention that you will be attempting to work as a songstress. Would you like to elaborate on such a rumour?”

Byleth humours him with a grin, and although it does not reach her eyes, it is, at the very least, a piece of genuine mirth. “It is not a rumour, but a fact.”

She looks down upon herself, grabs the hem of her flapper dress, adoring the green fabric that runs through her finger like silk. The embroidered details feel like remnants of the highlife in her hands, and she rubs the cloth in earnest before bringing her attention back to Seteth. “My workplace is a true jazz bar - and I have you know that the locals refer to it as _the cat’s meow_. Not that I know what that means.”

Flayn chuckles to her right, impressed by the use of slang, and, eager to please, attempts to explain. “It means something wonderful! I, ah, managed to learn a tad in order to fit in much easier.”

At that, Seteth shakes his head. “The youth these days holds such confusing phrases in such high regard, I do wish that language would be a constant instead, Flayn.”

His daughter simply shrugs, and begins to wave a cab down, a boxy looking mechanical carriage, horse-less, which gleams in a yellow golden hue. Taxi, is what they call it, Byleth remembers. A mass-produced automobile line used solely to carry passengers from one place to another.

“I should show you where I will perform tonight”, Byleth states.

The taxi stops beside them with a broad huff that seems yet too unrealistic to imitate a neigh or a whine. But it comes to a halt all the same, and the cab driver looks on with curiosity, noting her heavy make-up and bare legs, and as his eyes rove over her curves the door opens.

She crawls into the back area together with Flayn, while Seteth takes the front, and points the man towards their destination. “To the Eagle’s Nest, if you would be so kind, good Sir.”

“Aye, Ma’am”, he hollers, and the metal carriage springs to life once more.

She feels unimpressed by its rolling motions and unnatural way of movement but cannot deny the advancement of technology and how it is easier to feed an engine than an animal. Flayn watches out the high windows with glee, and Seteth begins to sniff the air which has a hefty dose of tobacco to it and smells just faintly of old leather.

“Say”, the cab driver drawls, “what’s a business man like you doin’ with a flap while yer carrying yer daughter ‘round?”

“Excuse-“ Seteth starts, face aghast and pale, and while he sputters Byleth finds the will in herself to let her voice sting like ice.

It is entirely offkey to the sounds of the busy street blaring tones of life towards them. “I am a singer, and we are family. Mayhaps we should take our business elsewhere.”

“Oh!” He swivels his head around, and Byleth notes the distinct terror in his eyes, mouth popped open in the shape of a ring. “Pardon my intrusion! To the Eagle’s Nest, as promised!”

Thankfully, the cab driver remains tactfully silent for the rest of the ride, and aside from the bumps in the asphalt that have Byleth notice how stagnant a car manages to mitigate the shaking of uneven roads, the way towards the bar is respectfully quiet.

She sees how Seteth paws at the bundle of cigars on his lap, legs clad in black trousers that yet look almost brand new, and part of her misses the lack of headgear on his forehead, replaced with a middle-class fedora that is, as every part of his outfit, utterly pristine.

It is only when Flayn begins to look outside in awe, then taps Byleth on the arm, face alight with joy, that she falls out of her thoughtless calm. Her companion points eagerly towards one building in particular, and as she does so, the cab comes to a startling halt. Seteth almost loses the grip on his expensive bundle of unhealthy happiness but remains tactful with the way his hands readjust.

They pay the driver more than he is worth even on a good day, but then these are roaring times, and money means little. Byleth wonders idly what such an amount would have gotten her, back when labour was still measured in gold. But then that thought passes, and the night life has her back on steady feet.

As they near the building she hears the taxi drive off, most surely to pick up another stray soul. She feels forlorn on the asphalt, glances up towards the bar in question, a rickety old thing which has most certainly seen better times, but welcomes the night-goers nevertheless. The wooden board welcoming in guests lights up with flickering bulbs, the letters spelling out “The Eagle’s Nest” whenever they have the grace to all align, alight at once.

Seteth raises an eyebrow as they set foot into the establishment, hand on Flayn’s hip, keeping her close lest she run off. Immediately the stale whiff of old smoke hits their noses, almost making Flayn gag, but they press on, towards a counter that has been in the middle of an altercation or two but tries to look dignified despite its age. There is no open area for singing or dancing, Byleth notices, but the off centred gambling table looks well used.

She feels a sort of kinship with the establishment at once, and waves over one of the attending barmaids, her dress shorter than even her own, red lipstick smeared on, lips kissed swollen from an unknown source. “I am supposed to start as a songstress here this evening…”

The plucky maid nods, teeth white except for the spot of red, surely from the lipstick. “Ahh! The new _charity girl,_ alright!”

“Ah, no-“ Byleth starts, and Seteth turns pale once more, mouth open and closing without producing sound. That, at least, is a term Byleth has heard before. “Singing. _Just_ singing.”

“Bummer”, the barmaid replies. “Your family? Your family. I thought I’d finally get that scoundrel off my back. Anyhow-“

With that, the girl makes a gesture to fellow them with one hand, while the other is busy pulling brown tresses of hair into curls, and Byleth wonders if it is natural, or if she is wearing a wig for the purpose of glamour.

She opens a backdoor with her hip, the old oak wood revealing a sleazy back alley, but the woman simply waves them along. “First door you see, there’s your stage. Keep it a secret, alright? That’s a _special_ club there, you know, really the _bee’s knees._ ”

Byleth shrugs, mouth pressed into a thin line, and walks onward. Her companions, on the other hand, seem much more terrified of this unpleasant turn of events. But they follow, anyhow, and as the three of them walk through the back alley, the haughty drum of music soon begins to ring in their ears.

First it starts as a soft, mellow sound, until it steadily turns into a whole crescendo of joy, the trumpets and violin streaks dancing through the night air unseen. Byleth finds herself in front of a blackened door, the handle dusted with rust.

She opens it carefully and is greeted with the splendour of a much richer place. Here, the dames wear dollar signs and the gents speak with glamour on their tongues. Here, the life of the party rests, juggling booze and liquor and whatever else it is that the rich do to enjoy themselves.

Here, the world moves on.

Seteth clutches Flayn closer, as they step inside. And then the strong scent of perfume weaves around them, a much more pleasant aroma that tackles the cigar smoke easily. Byleth nods towards her companions in a silent goodbye for the time being, then tries to find her way through the crowd, body touching dancing women and the men that watch them hungrily.

Making her way towards the main bar is an endeavour and a half, but she succeeds, after a time. She falls down on one of the bar stools, and looks towards the barkeeper, whose close cropped, blonde tresses and big rimmed glasses remind her of a young man much too dead to stand here.

“G-good evening, Madam. Anything I can…help you with?” His smile is friendly, if strained in a nervous fashion.

She nods but shakes her head when he grabs one of the champagne glasses. “Ig-“, she starts, then stops.

Starts again, a moment after. “It is…nothing. I am supposed to start working here as a songstress, today. What sort of…establishment, is this?”

The man loses all colour of his face, except for the stressed blush that creeps up his cheeks. “Ah, it is, you see…the important, the rich…they come here. For uhhh, business.”

He fumbles with a napkin, and she simply nods, eyes focused on the way his glasses frame him perfectly. The hand movement is the same, too, and if she concentrates hard enough, she can almost imagine him handling a paintbrush instead-

But before she can get lost in distant memories of old, he gestures towards the stage in the middle of the open room, where a dark-skinned woman in golden cloth sings to a jazz frazzled tune, underlined by piano music.

“The lady is booked until ten, and if you are a Miss Eisner, then you are up next. That should be in an hour…a yes, an hour, on the minute.”

His attention falls back on her, the grandfather clock in the corner forgotten. “You _are_ Miss Eisner, are you not?”

Byleth cannot help but wince at the name, but then it is one of the only things she carries that hasn’t been claimed by time, even if it does not speak the full truth about who she is – or used to be. She absentmindedly rubs a ring on her finger, its emerald stone shining bright in the orange haze of the club.

“I suppose I am”, she muses, though it lacks all sorts of enthusiasm. “Anything I should know beforehand?”

The bartender sends her a small smile in return. “Money flows every end of the week, based on your performance. It is all…a grey area. You should be fine, as long as you find a patron or two that love to see you.”

He gestures towards the edges of his lips, raises them a bit more. “Smiling is i-important.”

She wants to reach out and lay a hand on his arm to grant him comfort but stops herself short. “Smiling…I understand.”

He nods towards the stage once more. “Watching a performance may help.”

“Thank you kindly”, Byleth replies, and follows his advice, but not before ordering an alcohol-free cocktail. Upon his question of what it shall be she simply shrugs, and so he prepares a special drink she lacks the proper name to, but as she is handed the drink and gulps down some of the sweet liquid she is reminded of tea, just cold instead of warm.

This puts a real smile on her lips, as faint as it may be.

Her eyes scan the crowd for Flayn and Seteth, and she finds them at the edges of the entrance, her enthralled by all the going-ons while he holds another cigar into the air. The party-goers yet dance, most drunkenly, but some attempt what she recently learned is something called the _Charleston_ with vigour.

The jazz music drones on in her ears, and as she looks towards the stage, she sees the singer in question perform with a voice like honey, eyes wide and open and rivalling her smile in brightness. Her dress is short, almost daringly so, and she sways her hips to the beat while the entourage of musicians behind her hold their instruments with vigour.

Byleth notes how it all differs from the heavy bellowing of taverns, and how the instruments sound much richer, more fine-tuned than whatever she once danced to, back when the world still believed in beasts. There is no armour to be found here, only suits, and no mead is being drunk. It all seems much livelier than her memory, but also so much more wrong, as though someone has taken her and misplaced her within a second, and it took hundreds of years for her to end up here, but at the moment it might as well have taken nothing but the blink of an eye.

The singing stops.

People move, but she hardly notices. She sighs instead, and drinks the cold tea-like substance, but feels stale beer on her lips and the smile of a king at her neck, fingers dancing across her skin featherlight, but when she turns it is only a stream of warm air that tickles her, and the hot shiver than ran across her neck turns into a desperately cold one instead.

So, she stares to keep her pulse at bay. Watches as the songstress hurries from the stage to wet her lips with booze, sees the musicians speak between themselves as though grateful for the short break. The chit-chat of the party people is louder, now, and the clinking of glasses feels foreign in her ears.

Down near the stage, a grand old piano rests, black exterior a sharp contrast against all the browns and beiges of the place. It yet plays a soft tune as deft fingers dance across the keys, lulling the place into a state of utmost comfort.

The contrast of dark fingers against the stark white of the keys has her focus all her attention on the action, and from her spot at the bar she’s got a perfect view of it all. Sheet music is thrown haphazardly around, but the man is working the music as though coaxing out moans of a lover. The way his fingers drum makes it seem as if he puts his all into his performance, despite all appearances.

She hears him laugh over the sounds of the crowd, and it rings truer than the chuckles and snickers of the dames and gents, but it is entirely for him, and not for any other present person. He stops with a dramatic last fanfare, knuckles turning white at the edges, and then he lets his head turn around to take in his audience.

She looks over with the fortitude of a woman seeing a ghost, and the one she spies is all smiles and sharp angles. It feels almost as if it cuts her right in two and cracks the illusion of her heart into a million pieces. So, she picks them up together with her drink, gulps down the liquid entirely void of alcohol to fill the void in the pit of her stomach.

This man who holds her attention hostage swivels around on the bank in front of the piano, until he is sitting wide-legged, in a way that speaks of little professionalism, and holds a coquettish aura just playful enough to not seem insulting.

He hollers towards the bartender, who cleans a champagne glass with nervous hands, wide-rimmed glasses accentuating his horrified expression the moment he almost lets it shatter out of clumsiness. “…yes?”

“I’ve got two more songs to play, and then I need something strong. Don’t forget the rim of sugar, hear me?” His laugh bellows, even over the chatting of the party-goers, and Byleth welcomes the short break of songs, as it allows her to drink in his appearance.

Brown, tousled locks swept back but falling back in front, soft beads of sweat clinging to his forehead, framing a face so lush it seems to radiate in the lit-up room. And his eyes…they remind her of emerald stones cast far away, buried underneath earth and everything. They are full enough to have her glance back down to the ring still cradling her finger, and then back up at him.

It is all too much, makes her hands shake, so she cannot help herself but leave the bar stool, glass still in hand like a lifeline, and make her way over to him. He leans back against nothing but air, talking animatedly with his hands, with the helpful bartender nodding along as though they have known each other for a time.

“…so, anyway, I was thinking- ah.” He nods towards her, picks up the fedora laying on the seat behind him, and puts it on with unnecessary flourish. Then he points to her, hand moving in a way to gesture towards her full form, smile askew and handsome in a hands-on way.

“Hello there. First time, I’d wager?”


	2. The Sweet Songs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, the main pairings tag has changed...you'll soon learn why this will be a Claude / Byleth / Seteth focus soon. ♪
> 
> (For those of you not specifically into Seteth/Byleth: There's a plot reason for it and I think it strengthens the motivations of the characters, otherwise I wouldn't throw something like this in here.)

She’s guarded at once, the kind of feeling that has her draw her arms over themselves, because regarding him from a safe place, with her hands preoccupied, is the lesser evil of the two that she can imagine. Despite herself her fingers twitch, nervous, and her entire being shivers, the wish to touch so heavy in her body that it has even him take note.

So, he rises from his seat, slides his fingers below well-used suspenders and pulls on them just to achieve the rough charm of a pleasant man who can handle the weight of a woman much better than the candid notes of the keys. It would all seem arrogant, if she weren’t regarding him like a long lost treasure, and the smile that he sends her in turn shines brighter than any gold.

“My reply depends on the kind of _first time_ you had in mind”, her lips purr, and it paints her like a woman of the time period, flirty and fancy and everything but forlorn. She is, but hides it well, behind a smile that cannot quite reach her eyes.

And her companion, with his tousled hair and treacherous grin, eats her words up in a way that has her know they must taste like poison. “Mhm,” he quips, “there are many a first time a woman might be looking for in a place such as this.”

“Such as…?” She plays along, wets her lips and eyes him and the way his nails scratch at the corners of his shirt, careful to pick off any dust that has settled there, but he could not seem more alive than he does now, no matter the fact that the white is too washed out and creased to look richer than a man of a working class status.

Byleth knows that in a world such as this such miniscule details rule him out of being a man for more than a night, and the way he presents himself has him appeal to the ladies looking for a quick lay, rather than a lover. It is only when his form is fitted to the piano behind him that the matter of heritage falls away and the music is all that counts.

But he stands in front of it, now, and scratches at his neck in a boyish fashion. He is much younger than _he_ was when he passed, and there is no hint of an old soul in the way that he studies her face, no appreciation for the youth that she shows. His eyes rest on the ring on her finger instead, gaze downcast, smirk a tad more dangerous than before.

“Well,” he starts, and she hears the hidden agenda behind it, “there are plenty of handcuffed ladies looking for an adventure, for one.”

It bites, the displeasure in the back of his throat. A sound eager to rip out whatever feelings she keeps in her ribcage, but she is not one for broken bones when blood could boil. So, she does nothing but swiftly brush her finger over the emerald sitting there, in the middle of the old ring, and regards it with warmth.

Out of the corner of her eyes she sees him watch with curiosity, the light in his eyes dancing while the ladies and gents rest their feet. It is not his fault, she tells herself, for being as guarded as a knight protecting a king only known through folklore. But she was a queen, once, and has held a crown while this lad so much similar to her star lives under a wholly different horizon, one where the bar lights twinkle more than the outside world on nights such as this.

Byleth feels the need to stand under a cloudless sky but gives him the pleasure of a smile instead. “Not every woman has a husband to return to.”

“Ah”, he breathes, and the word comes out tinny. Not unlike the sound that business men make when they read about stock market crashes in the newspapers, but few men had to live through such moments in the last couple of years.

“I am sad to hear that.” His admission of sympathy sounds neither as hollow as the words of church goers, nor as true as the grief of women who lost their men through circumstance. “Was it the war?”

And her reply is a lie, but not completely so. “You could say that.”

“My first time…would be singing on stage”, she states after, just to cut him off and leave no room for questioning. Byleth does not need further empathetic actions from him, not when he wears _his_ face as though it were crafted for him alone. Like a mask, but one that belongs to him, not one created aeons ago.

“I figured”, he mutters. Holds on to his suspenders once again, then, this time to smooth out any creases of his shirt. He tips the hat, after, and that cocky attitude is back in full force. “You would do well to bring back joy into this party, lady. Rumour has it that Mister Aegir managed to get the rich folks together for tonight to _scheme_. How fun, wouldn’t you say?”

She winces at the name, feels the hot streak of blood coat her fingers in an instant, but when she looks down her hands are yet clean, nails yet painted in green. Concentrating on the way he smells, like pine needles but not the Almyran kind, is an endeavour that keeps the whiff of iron at bay.

Needless to say, when he talks, he seems just as obnoxious as the teenage version of his counterpart that lays five feet under. It makes her sigh just so, but her breath hitches when he lays a hand upon her shoulder, completely disregarding whatever proximity would be fitting for the occasion of a first meeting.

His index finger points to the empty glass in her hand. “Say, you do a good job, I shall celebrate it with you by handing out some panther piss. Not the good kind, though, but it’ll do.”

“Panter…piss…?” She cannot help but chuckle, noting that his hand still lays there, and it is missing a ring, and that makes it all wrong, but she can look into his face instead and pretend that _nothing_ is.

The laughter that roars in reply is honest, at least. “Whiskey. But not the fancy stuff. It’ll get you zozzled anyhow.”

She nods, then, takes him up on his offer because how could she not? She shouldn’t, but it’s done before the smirk that he wears has time to grow larger, but when it does, she feels her cheeks blush. Seeing the musicians make their way back on stage is an easy distraction, and she points towards them, then back to him.

“I guess it is time for your debut”, he chuckles in turn, head turned back over his shoulder to stare at the chatting folks and the action has the definition of his neck stand out against the contrast of white. It is a good look and reminds her of all the times her old love used to scope out enemy territory.

“That means you’re Miss Eisner, huh?”

He turns back around towards her, grin still askew behind those lips, and she halfway expects him to give her insight on wyvern riders, but he doesn’t. “The good fellas told me about you. From the way they spoke I was imagining a much older woman.”

His words turn her eyes more narrow, judgmental. She does not show much emotion on the rest of her face, but part of her fears how easy she is yet to read. So she wonders, and ponders on the question before speaking up. “You know my name…yet who do I owe the pleasure of speaking with to?”

Perhaps it is in the way his head tilts, maybe the crux lies with how his voice becomes honey-stung, but there is a slight chance that it is neither, and Byleth cares little for the reason of it all because what is important is the word that escapes from his throat, rough and old and unused to her ears, and yet he pronounces it with conviction.

As if it does not belong to a dead man.

“Claude.”

She sobs a reply, a wet sound, ocean deep and as heavy as a sunken ship.

“…Claude…”

He catches the way the colour drains from her face, holds it all up with two hands that are spread apart only to curl into fists, and the grin that now clings to his mouth is a wondrous one because it does not seem real, not even in the glum light that bathes him in a pleasant glow.

“Pretty big name for a piano man, huh? Mâmân used to tell me we’re descendants from the line of the great _King of Unification_ himself.”

That’s impossible, Byleth thinks to herself. She never had children, neither did Claude, and not for a lack of trying. It was not meant to be, and yet this man claims to hold his name as his own and wears it with a badge of unconcerned pride, almost mockingly.

“Of course, they never found the lad, so – far as I know – he’s just part of a fairy-tale.”

 _Thank the Goddess_ , she thinks, but no one answers, least of all Sothis herself. He earned himself a rest that is eternal, the most fragile kind of immortality that no one should ever have the power to take away.

If he were to be ever found, she would not know what to do.

But this man who looks just like him thinks he is little more than folklore, and though it hurts it is a reality she can live with, easier at least than if she had to look at his corpse, displayed for the ever-watchful folks obsessed with curiosities. Her king is more than a circus act, more than a piece of history, he holds her still beating heart and no one else shall ever again lay their eyes upon his form.

Byleth sighs and corrects the lad in front of her with the heavy voice of a woman believing in every story ever told that involves the King of Unification, no matter how exaggerated. “He is _history._ It is an honour to share his name.”

Then, stepping closer so she can rest the glass between her fingers on the shiny wood of the piano, she adds a statement that is perhaps partly naïve in the way it is spoken, and rings older than the voiced quips of the common man. “I think he could have looked like you.”

“Wait”, this much younger version of Claude replies, gaze calculative even as his body draws nearer to hers, “you mean to say that he would have been as ruggedly handsome as I am? My, my, Miss Eisner, you can be quite feisty when you wish to be.”

She wishes to tell him _“And you have not changed one bit.”_ but knows better, so her voice simply mellows out in the same way that her flapper dress does as it hugs her knees. “I shall see you later, Mister Not-Von-Riegan.”

Then she steps away from him, takes the staircase next to the stage and feels her shoes clack on the wooden floor boards – and she steps up once, twice, three times before coming to a halt before the band, young gents all ready to start up the music once more, their faces flush from alcohol but fingers straight.

Hey eyes scan the crowd as she steps forward, looking for green between the rainbow colours, and she finds what she is looking for as a piercing stare collides with her own, gaze obstructed only partway by the hat that he wears. Seteth does not wave, but he nods in acknowledgement, and though his outward appearance lacks anticipation Flayn more than makes up for it. She eagerly stands on the tips of her toes, just to be able to see above the heads of other partygoers.

It is re-assuring to find the comfort in the chaos, and so Byleth finds her voice akin to a prayer, mouth moving to signal to the band to start before her attention moves back to Claude, who winks at her while letting his fingers ghost over the keys of the piano.

As she turns away from him, she notes how his eyes linger on the lipstick stain on her cocktail glass, glossy and pink. But he voices no more, and the low drum of the instruments starts up in a roaring rhythm, violins in a violent streak as the trumpets howl with tremors. Byleth wets her lips, tugs the flesh between her teeth, sighs once, then sings.

It is a melodic tune, no more sinful than a wish for something holy, but the way her dress clings to herself has her acknowledge the presence of the present. The swaying of her hips thus comes as a practiced motion, something studied rather than felt, and yet the stares of lust linger on every curve of her, warm and wrong on her skin. It makes her shiver, not the good kind, it mimics not the careful love of _his_ touch, only the way the tip of a blade would tingle against her flesh.

Byleth hums, and searches for the many stares, an action that drives the weapon further into her until it draws blood from her tongue. The bite stings, but only worse enough to taste the iron on her lips, and it can hardly be worse of an aroma than cheap whiskey. Still, Seteth takes note, frown cast over his features akin to a shadow, and no honest enthusiasm from Flayn can wipe it off of his face.

There is a wrong note that the piano shrieks, off centre just so, and the stumble of rhythm is overplayed with a charming grin and a display of professionalism thereafter, a flurry of fingers that hit the keys in a much more sacred way than before. He chuckles once he catches her mortified expression, lets one hand dance feather-light while the other means to reach out to her empty glass, and once he's gotten it carefully in his grasp he brings it up to his mouth, kissing the imitation of her lips while lingering on those plump real ones with an intense heat in his eyes.

This time, _she_ stumbles, words a mixture in her mouth, whispered all wrong. He drinks up her flustered expression instead of the drink, downs it all with an expression of utter mirth. Byleth feels entirely brought back to simpler times, when he would steal books instead of kisses, hide her class notes instead of her breasts under his pressing touch.

Back when he used to steal information instead of her breath away.

Now he does the latter without a single word or touch, with nothing but a grin on his lips, full and fierce. But the song requires her attention, drawing to a close just as she finds her voice again. Her band mates at least only take her mistake for nothing but sheer nervousness, and for that she is thankful. After all, this is her first gig. Rookies would have it easy, she supposes, even on stages not meant to be battlefields.

In the corner of her eyes she watches Claude stretch, hands high in the air, neck rolling to get rid of any muscle strain, while Seteth gives a polite clap upon noticing her looking in his direction. Flayn, a total contrast to the two men, cheers with vigour, not caring for the bodies around her, in the middle of a stopped dance. Even the barkeeper sends her a reassuring smile the moment Byleth redirects her attention towards the bar.

Yet the violins and trumpets start up again, this time more melancholic, and the soft jazz tune has her rotate in earnest, eyes closed, head busy imagining a lover’s embrace instead of the limelight. The prayer that she sings now is more sinful in its nature, more earnest in the way it is spoken, strung along like pearls on a necklace instead of the string of a bow. She can let herself go, body the opposite of taut.

Perhaps it feels like gliding rather than flying, yet she is weightless all the same.

She feels every press of the piano keys on her skin, a sweet sensation that could well double as fluttering kisses, thinks of all the ways her body has been held before and could be held again, and breathes out with the tug of joy on her lips. Maybe he would have loved this song, she wonders. Perhaps they could have listened to it together, another part of her thinks. In a different life she could have sung it to him.

But when she opens her eyes again, she does so to the brilliance of emerald green, and it is just the same colour as the one that plagues her at night, but much more real, a lot more alive, the difference between a cold ring and a roaring “could”.

Because she _should_ not, but she _could_ get lost in it all.

Before she can muster her courage and wear it like the skin of a slain beast however her second number ends, and so does the music, and with it his fingers upon the piano keys. Any magic subsides, and the world is little more than a hazy party at the edge of town once more, with the dawn far away. 

Byleth steps down from the stage – and breathes.

She plans to get back to safety, to the warm embrace of Flayn and her cheerful joy, yet finds her path obstructed by the very man she hopes to get away from lest she do something entirely foolish. And he wears his pride in his stare, piercing, and for a second it has her wonder whether he keeps an arrow hidden somewhere on his form.

Still, the only object hitting her is the glass which he presses into her open palm, smile askew and one eye closed in a cheeky wink. “Now, what a performance! A drink, as promised – my treat.”

She plans to leave him be, but his hand clamps onto her shoulder, steering her right towards the bar, where he plops down in a seat unceremoniously, while she tries to sit on a bar stool as comfortable as possible.

The band resumes playing, yet no singer joins them, this time.

“Hey Ignatz, hand us two shots of whiskey. Miss Eisner here earned herself a prize for a job well done.” He eyes her as she puts the glass down, attention focused on the now smeared imprint of her lips.

“…it’s Ignatius”, the barkeeper sighs, but gives Byleth a reassuring smile. “But yes, you did quite well, Miss Eisner. You earned it, I assure you.”

It is relatively quiet for a while as the man with the curious name prepares the two drinks. He slides them over with practiced care despite the nervousness that presents itself on his brow, sweat sticking close to his scalp. The empty glass vanishes behind the counter, and so does the attention given to it, now strictly turned towards Byleth herself.

“Thanks, Ignatz”, Claude carries on, not acknowledging the false nickname, and Byleth winces upon hearing it leave his mouth once more. “So, singer lady, tell me about yourself.”

He swiftly grabs one of the whiskey glasses, swirls the liquid around with practiced ease, his gaze never leaving the curves of her mouth, until it eventually travels lower just to catch another look at the ring that she wears. Byleth knows he must recognise its worth, because there is a new, calculative look to him, and it only vanishes the moment she raises her own fingers to her glass.

He lets his gaze roam over her entire body shortly, then, quick enough to not seem sleazy, and the way he licks his lips before downing his drink has her wonder about what game he plays. Because if he resembles her old love as closely as she believes, then he is doing this not for her comfort but his own.

She hesitates with her answer, cups the drink in her hand gingerly. “What would you have me talk about?”

“Mhm”, his voice is a smooth baritone, silk-touched without sounding rich enough to give his words further meaning. “Anything _interesting_ , preferably. You aren’t from here, are you?”

“Just moved here”, she states, and it is true, though it is, for sure, not the answer he is fishing for.

But it seems to soothe his curiosity well enough, and she downs her drink while he asks for a refill. “That so? Know any good places around here, yet?”

She shrugs, only notes the smugness that takes root only to bloom into a reassured grin the moment the words have left her, and they fall to the floor with her wish to trample them down. “My…”

 _Home_ would be a lie, home is an eternity away with no way to get it back.

So, she settles on “Place.”

The laugh gets stuck in his throat for a hot second, and then the intensity is back, flame-like and radiant. “Your place, eh?”

Something mischievous takes a hold of him, makes the grin behind the tipped whiskey glass seem much more boyish than it has any right to be. The liquor flows down his throat and Byleth watches as his adam’s apple bobs up and down with the action, and she brings her hand to her mouth to keep from showing him the nervous smile that has etched itself into her skin, but when she draws it back there it is, a new pink print of the shape of her lips.

He eyes it with curiosity, and grabs a hold of said hand, thumb pressing into the lipstick as though he could feel the real equivalent of it.

"Care to show me what's so _interesting_ about it?"


End file.
